Unbeing Dead
by Cheshrin
Summary: "Unbeing dead isn't being alive." - E.E Cummings. After two months on her own, against hordes of undead, Heather Barbara McLeland never thought that she'd see another person, much less a group of them. She never thought that they'd invite her to join them. She never thought that she'd find in them a family. Follows the show's plot starting from season 1 onward. Eventual Daryl/OC.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the Walking Dead**

* * *

**Chapter One – It All Came Crumbling Down**

* * *

_Day One_

_No one could be prepared for what happened._

* * *

There was no absolute word for what had happened. Some people called it an outbreak or epidemic, like it was some kind of flu. Others called it an Event with a capital E, because the fact that it occurred as such was the only explicable thing about it. The doomsayers in the streets had many names for it: apocalypse, Armageddon, the end times, the holy retribution for humanity's sins, there was a whole list for them.

Heather Barbara McLeland just called it a moment, because she could pinpoint the exact moment in which everything changed.

It had all started on a pretty average afternoon, and Heather was doing what she usually did in the afternoons those days: studied. It wasn't a particularly exciting task, admittedly, but she couldn't afford to slack off when it came to her studies. She wouldn't allow herself to suffer academic failure, not after all of the work she'd already poured into it. So, sitting cross-legged on her bedspread with her nosed practically buried in a book about biodiversity in deep sea creatures, she sat and studied, the rest of her sense numb to the outside world. It was only the familiar slam of the apartment's door and the loud "_Uuuuugh_" of her friend and unofficial quasi-roommate that caught her attention, and she peered over her glasses at the scene unfolding in front of her as a familiar shock of electric blue hair and its owner pitched forward into her bedroom, landing face-first onto the floor with another "Uuuuugh," this time muffled by the garish zebra-striped rug.

"Rough lecture?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

Twenty-four-year-old Becca Barone looked up at Heather, her pointy features settled into a pout. "That's an understatement," the creative writing major said with a groan, and began to launch into a rant about how she'd fallen asleep halfway through the lecture and how no one had bothered to wake her up, mentioning how the part of the class she was awake for had "killed her brain" and how she couldn't believe she'd managed to do "this college thing" for six years and how she was so glad that she was almost done with it and how could Heather _possibly_ go through nearly a decade of "diabolic torture from the deepest pits of hell disguised as higher education."

Becca had a way with words, Heather had to admit. "So, you had a bad day at school and your first thought was to come into _my_ apartment uninvited and complain to me about it," she said, lingering on each word in an attempt to make her point. She adored Becca, she really did, but the way she spent more time in Heather's apartment than her own was a little ridiculous. "At this point, you might as well move in with me and we can split the rent. It's be cheaper for both of us."

Becca's dark eyes gleamed at the prospect. "Oh, that's actually not a half bad idea... But that's a more serious talk for a time that is not now." Getting up from her position sprawled on the floor, the younger woman sat herself down on the edge of Heather's bed, bouncing slightly on the mattress. "I came by to chat for a few minutes before you head off to work, but now that I'm here I can't help but notice that you are not gettin' ready for said work." She eyed Heather's rather casual choice of wardrobe. "Unless you plan on servin' tables in your 'jammies."

Heather shook her head, pursing her lips. "I, uh, might have called in sick. I figured that if I waited on one more table, my feet were going to fall off." She stretched out her legs for emphasis, smiling contentedly as the soft flannel of her plaid pajama legs rubbed up against the skin of her shins. "So I was gonna spend the night eating instant noodles and jelly beans and watchin' really bad superhero movies just to make fun of them, because that was the least taxing thing I could think of doing and I already own the bad movies in question." She noticed Becca's eyes light up, and added, "You can join in, if you want, s'long as you remember keep to the house rules this time."

"No alcohol, no illegal substances, no shared food with garlic," Becca recited. "And I'm really sorry about last time. If I'd known that the dip that Johnny'd brought was gonna put you in the hospital, I'd have never let him make it."

"It's fine," Heather assured her. "So, you in?"

Becca nodded. "Yeah, I'm in!" she said. "D'you mind if I borrow the TV for a few minutes in the meantime? I wanna check the news."

"Checkin' for anything specific?"

"Nah, just checkin'."

"All right," Heather said. As Becca beamed appreciatively and bounded away to the living room, Heather stretched again and pushed herself out of bed, ruffling the long locks of her butterscotch-brown hair and noting absentmindedly that she'd probably need to get it cut when the worst part of summer started to roll around. Tossing the book back on the nightstand, she went to go put on something resembling a proper, non-pajama shirt when Becca called out from the other room, "Heather? Come check this out."

Brow furrowing over her eyes in confusion, Heather made her way to the living room, where Becca was sprawled out on the couch and staring intently at the TV. "Listen to this," her friend said, gesturing to the news broadcast with a remote.

_"-eported to be bite wounds. Witnesses claim that these attackers looked to be very ill and seemed to have trouble walking. Those who were attacked have been hospitalized for possible infections resulting from the bites. Reports of similar violence have come in from several major cities, including New York City, Atlanta, and Los Angeles. No information is available yet as to the cause of these incidents."_

Looking back at what she remembered of the first few days, Heather would consider that moment, the moment she walked in on the news broadcast, to be the moment that signaled the destruction of everything she knew, because everything after that had led directly to society's practical end.

Of course, at the time she hadn't thought any such thing. "'Incidents?'" Heather repeated, bracing herself against the back of the couch and leaning forward, hazel eyes boring into the TV screen and the news reporter's neutral gaze."What 'incidents,' what are they talking about?"

"You missed that part," Becca explained. "Apparently people are wandering out into the streets looking like they crawled out of hell and just started trying to eat their neighbors or something. There hasn't been anything like that down here, though, at least none that they've mentioned."

"So why'd you call me in here?" Heather asked.

"I called you in because it's effin' weird. People going out and turning into crazy cannibals? And this ain't like a local thing, this is happening all over the place. There some sort of weird new drug people're selling on the streets?"

"I don't know," Heather said, "I'm not exactly an expert on illegal pharmaceuticals." Upon seeing the concern on Becca's face, she shook her head and patted her on the shoulder. "Lighten up. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. People made a big deal out of that whole swine flu thing last year."

"The swine flu killed over eight thousand people, Heather," Becca pointed out.

"A hundred and fifty thousand people die from all sorts of causes every day," Heather replied sharply. "Eight thousand didn't make me lock the doors and bust out the cough masks last time, and even if this does turn out to be more than just wild human craziness, it's most certainly nothing to be concerned about." Her gaze flicked to the small rack of DVDs under the television. "I'm gonna warm up some of the instant noodles and bust out the jelly beans, get this hoedown started. Before I do, which movie do you want to watch first?"

Becca sat up, her eyes bright. "Batman and Robin! I wanna see George Clooney's Bat-Nipples!"

Heather laughed. "Bat-Nipples it is. Gimme a second with the food, then it's movie time." She gave Becca's shoulder a final pat before turning and heading to the kitchen. She idly tossed the news report out of her thoughts, dismissing it as simply more of the weird shit that people _did_ sometimes. She didn't like it, not by any means, but she couldn't worry herself about every instance of assault that went on the world. She'd drive herself mad like that. Besides, if someone had died, Becca'd have let her know.

She told herself once more than it wasn't anything to worry about.

If only she'd known.

* * *

_Day Three_

_They tried to stop it. They tried to cut it off before it got too bad._

* * *

"Your name, miss?"

"Heather Barbara McLeland."

"And your birthday?"

"April eighth, nineteen-eighty-four. And _no,_ Big Brother is not watchin' me, and I have not committed any thought-crime."

The doctor standing in front of her shuffled through his papers, her head ducked down in an attempt to hide the small smile that stretched across her face at her preemptive retort. He didn't respond, however, choosing to simply continue searching through his papers until he found whatever it is he was looking for; probably the medical records the university had given him, Heather figured. "It says here that you're five-foot-six, have an allergy to garlic and suffer from astigmatism. Is this all accurate?" he asked, confirming her suspicions.

"Last I figured, yeah." she said, tapping at the side of her glasses pointedly. "I last had a check-up six months ago, so that's all as up-to-date as it can be." The doctor didn't say anything, and she cleared her throat. "So, uh, what's this all about?"

"We're just making sure that everything's in order," the doctor replied. "You don't need to worry."

"I see. And the SWAT guy standin' just outside that door?" The doctor froze, his face turning blank to mask whatever it was he was thinking. Knowing that she'd hit some sort of nail on some sort of head, Heather continued. "Is this about all those news reports? I know there's been some incidents like that down here in Austin, but is the armed guard really necessary? What's goin' on?"

"Nothing that you need to concern yourself with, Miss McLeland, I assure you," the doctor said, a little too quickly for Heather's comfort. "It's just that those who've been infected tend to be... violent. The guard outside is just a precaution."

Heather raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like I'm about to take a bite out of you?" she said.

The doctor shook his head. "No, Miss McLeland, you do not," he said. "But we're just trying to be sure. Now, I'm going to run a basic check-up, which will include taking a sample of your blood. With your permission, of course."

"Knock yourself out," Heather replied.

She was starting to feel a bit concerned if they were running check-ups on everyone on campus. She was even more concerned with the SWAT officer standing on the other side of the closed door, having given Heather a cold and even star as she entered the room. She was starting to wonder what it was that people didn't know about this terrifying new plague that had seemed to grip the nation.

If only she'd known.

* * *

_Day Seven_

_They set up safe zones, trying to protect people from its reach._

* * *

Heather had been slowly driven into a permanent state of unease by the events unfolding, but she'd never actually seen the damage first-hand until the seventh day after the moment that changed her life. The University of Texas and the surrounding neighborhoods had been turned into a sort of safe-zone due to the secure buildings and large amount of living space for people, with strict curfews and no one allowed to enter without undergoing thorough medical examination to prove that they hadn't been bitten or scratched or otherwise infected. As such, Heather had been pretty sheltered by all that was happening. Perhaps if she had, she'd have been hesitating instead of packing.

"Are you sure about this, Heather?"

"Positive," Heather snapped with more force than she'd meant to as she shoved article after article of clothing into the suitcase. "You saw the leaked numbers. Millions have died. _Millions_ of deaths in a week that the government's been tryin' to keep under wraps 'to prevent widespread panic.'" She scoffed. People were panicking now, all right, and the secrecy from the people who'd sworn to protect and serve the country's citizens didn't exactly help to calm the riots in the streets. "And now they're sayin' Marshall's bit hit." She whirled to face her friend, who was staring at her with wide, apprehensive eyes. "Marshall, Becca!"

"I know," Becca said. "I know! But do you really want to go on a five hour drive and risk yourself like this?" She took a deep breath, her slight body trembling visibly. "You haven't seen those... those_ things_. And take it from someone who has, you don't _wanna_! They're... they're not even human anymore. They're like corpses, they're bleedin' and rottin' but they _just keep walking!_ And if they see you, they'll follow you, they'll...!" She trailed off, her eyes welling up with tears. "You can't leave the safe zone, Heather!" Becca continued, practically begging at this point.

For the briefest of seconds, Heather wanted to say yes, to say that she'd stay and keep Becca company and comfort her while the rest of the state went to hell. But she couldn't. This was too big for her to stay. "Becca," she said, quieter this time. "You know I can't. This is _Marshall_ we're talking about. My _grandparents_ are there, and I wanna make sure they're okay." She reached out and placed her hands on her roommate's shoulders, offering a small, false smile. "I'm gonna be okay. I'm gonna head on over to Marshall, gonna make sure my grandparents are okay and I'm gonna bring them right back here where we're all gonna sit on the couch, safe and sound and laughing at George Clooney's Bat-Nipples. All right?"

Becca hesitated before nodding. "All right. But you'd better promise me that you'll be okay. Cross your heart and everything."

"Cross my heart," Heather said, dragging her index finger across her chest in an "X" shape before turning back to her suitcase and continuing to back. Her fingers hovered over a jade green hoodie with a bull shark embroidered onto the front. It was probably going to be too warm for it; one of the joys of living in Texas was that one rarely had to worry about it being too cold for jeans and a t-shirt. But the hoodie had some sentimental value to it, having been a gift to her from Becca. Plus it was comfortable, and goodness knows she'd need some comfort over the next few days. So she stuffed it in.

"You sure you're gonna wanna bring all that?" Becca asked. "If you wanna bring somethin' back from your grandfolks' house, you won't exactly have much space."

Heather snapped her fingers. "Of course, you're right, I shouldn't bring all this. I don't have a single ounce of room for my jelly beans," she joked, hoping to cheer her friend up. Becca frowned slightly. "I've got a footlocker, Becca," Heather said with a sigh, closing the suitcase top and forcing it shut with a firm yank of the zipper. "I'll bring it with me for stuff like that. It'll be my little box of sentiment."

"Well, if sentiment's what you're lookin' to stuff that with, I've got somethin' down in my apartment," Becca said. "You wait right here and I'll be back with it." Before waiting for Heather to reply, the blue-haired young woman turned and left the room, and the slam of the front door told Heather that she'd left the apartment entirely. Confused as to what Becca was talking about, she sighed again and headed to the kitchen. She'd been joking about the jelly beans at the time, but the more she thought about it, the more her sweet tooth was telling her to bring her candy along.

_Damned sweet tooth,_ she thought as she opened the cabinet holding her stash of sugary treats and pulled a couple of bags down at random without checking their contents. It didn't matter which kinds she grabbed down. With the exception of one bag – which was Becca's bag of chocolate-flavored jelly beans, and she was _positive_ she hadn't grabbed that one –she positively adored each and every flavor of jelly bean she had. She wasn't picky when it came to candy. The only thing she didn't like was chocolate. Unfortunately for her, about half of all candy anywhere was chocolate or chocolate-flavored.

She looked for the small, gunmetal footlocker next. That was a bit harder to track down; unlike the jelly beans, Heather didn't use her footlocker every day. After a quick scouring of the apartment, she eventually found it stuffed in the corner of her coat closet and dragged it out, wincing at its weight. It was much heavier than she remembered it being, especially for only being about the length of her arm and as tall as a third that.

As she pulled it through her bedroom doorway and pulled it up onto the bed, she heard the front door open and close again, signaling Becca's return. "Hey," she called out.

"Hey," Becca said as she appeared in the doorway, a familiar bundle of patchwork cloth in her arms. "Here you go," she said, holding the bundle out."

Heather eyed it carefully as she placed the bags of jelly beans into the footlocker. "Your mood quilt? Are you sure?" she said, tentative in her words. "I might get stuck in Marshall and not get back for a while."

Becca nodded. "Positive. I trust that you'll take good care of it," she said, shoving the quilt into Heather's hands. "Besides," Becca added, "It'll keep you cozy."

"It's nearly summer, Becca."

"I said cozy, not warm. There's actually a difference." Becca's face fell slightly. "Are you sure that you're going to be okay?" she asked. "I don't want you to go out there underestimatin' just how bad it is and getting yourself killed."

Heather placed the quilt into the footlocker, taking good care to handle it as gently as she could. "I'm sure," she said. "I'm not going to let a few sick people get the best of me. And I certainly don't expect that they'll have gotten the best of my grandparents." After a brief, silent moment, she pulled Becca into a close hug. "I'll be back," she promised again. "I might get stuck there for a bit, but I _will_ be back, and I'll be bringin' my grandparents with me."

Becca nodded into her shoulder. "Okay. Okay," she said. "I'm... I'm gonna be stayin' over with Johnny for a bit. I don't really feel comfortable sleepin' in my apartment alone, and he's worried about his brother out in Georgia – they're saying Atlanta's been hit, and Fort Benning's not that far from there – so I'm gonna keep him company. So when you come back, that's where I'll be."

"All right." Heather said, pulling away from the hug. "I'd better go get this stuff down to the car. Goodness knows the footlocker's gonna give me a bit of trouble."

"Need any help?" Becca offered.

"Nah, I'll be good. I'll see you later, okay?"

"Okay. And Heather?"

"Yeah?"

Becca's expression took on a somber tone, and her voice went flat. "Don't think of them as human. They're not. They look like humans, but they don't see you as such, and you shouldn't see them as such. It'll get you killed."

If only Heather had known just how true Becca's words were.

If only she'd known.

* * *

_But no one was safe._

* * *

It was on the seventh day, five hours after she left the university campus and the safe zone, that Heather learned just how far the world had crumbled.

The streets of Marshall were never as busy as the bustling roads of Austin that Heather had gotten used to, but she still distinctly recalled there always being cars about. But now the long planes of gray asphalt were completely barren, without a single flash of metal as teenagers drove by too fast and middle-aged parents took their kids home from school. The late afternoon sun blazed overhead, causing the inside of her car that Heather was driving to become uncomfortably warm. As she turned the AC up, she couldn't help but remember how she'd once been told that darker colors tended to attract more heat than lighter colors, and the black exterior of the sedan was about as dark as it could get. _I knew I should have gotten it painted white,_ she thought.

The 1994 Ford Taurus had been her partner in transportation for about a decade at that point, having been a gift from her grandparents for her 16th birthday. When she'd heard the year it was made in, she'd objected quite heavily to the idea of owning it. After all, she hadn't exactly had good experiences with cars and the year 1994. But, after many harsh words were exchanged, she'd accepted the car, and had grown somewhat fond of it. It wasn't some fancy Ferrari or monster of an SUV, but it was reliable.

And it had shit for circulation. Sighing, Heather rolled down the driver-side window, letting out a hum of satisfaction as the air rushing in ruffled her air and cooled her sweat-dampened forehead. She leaned her head back against the seat as she drove, allowing herself this minute of respite after nearly five hours of tension-filled driving through the nearly empty freeways of Texas.

She'd seen some of them. Not close up; they were far away, in the fields and behind the bushes, and Heather passed them long before she could get a good look at them. They had seemed... off. The way they stood, they walked, it seemed... inhuman. She thought back to Becca's words. _Don't think of them as human. It'll get you killed._ Despite the heat, she felt an icy chill run down her spine. Becca had to have been exaggerating. These people weren't some soulless monsters. They were crazy, yeah, but not _inhuman._ And yet, they hadn't seemed human in the slightest.

As Heather pulled onto the street where her grandparents lived, she chalked her fears up to nerves. She was driving in an area where cannibalistic crazy people had been reported, it was natural that she'd freak out and start to over-imagine things. This thought helped to calm her a little as she drove up to the one-story house with the ivory siding and rust-red shingles that her grandparents lived in.

But as soon as she shut the car off and opened the door, her worries came back empty. The neighborhood was far too _empty._ Where were the Rodriguez kids, playing with their basketball that had been personally autographed by several members of the Houston Mavericks? Where was Ms. Blakely, doing her morning stretches on her lawn before going to her job as an afternoon technical consultant? Where was the Dawsons' gentle Great Dane, patrolling their fence dutifully while wagging his tail with adulation at every person who passed?

Where were the familiar sounds of her grandparents' television turned up to the max so that her near-deaf grandfather could hear what the people on Pawn Stars were saying?

Heather could feel her fingers trembling against her hips and promptly shoved them in the pockets of her jeans, hoping to steady them or at least conceal their shaking as she walked down the path and up the porch steps to the rickety old front door. She pulled one of her hands out and knocked against the wood of the door with a _rap rap rap_. "Grandma?" she called out. "Grandpa? It's me, it's Heather." There wasn't any answer. She knocked again, as loud as she could so that they could hear it. "Grandma! Grandpa!" Heather cried out. "It's your _granddaughter_, let me in, it's important!"

Still nothing. Heartbeat picking up a little, Heather took a step back. _Maybe they're out back,_ she thought. It wasn't uncommon for her grandparents to be out back relaxing in the sun this time of year. They were always outdoorsy people, after all. Turning around, she hurried off the porch and made her way around the side of the house, keeping one hand pressed against the weather worn ivory siding. As she reached the backyard, she ran a scrutinizing hazel gaze over the verbena garden and her grandparents' hunting shed. There was no sign of them. Her gaze fell on the back door, and her heart dropped.

It was wide open. There was blood on the door frame.

Heather ran inside, her breath caught in her throat. "Grandma?!" she shouted. "Grandpa! Where are you?!" There was no answer. The heels of her combat boots pounded against the linoleum floor of the kitchen "Please tell me you're all right," she pleaded under her breath. "Please be all right, please be all right..." Heather couldn't imagine what she would do if one of those people were to have gotten in while her grandparents were home. Her grandparents were tough, yes; her grandfather had been hunting his whole life and her grandmother had taught her quite a few things about self defense. But they were old, her grandmother pushing seventy-four and her grandfather three years older, and people had died who were far younger and far more fit than the two of them. Heart now pounding rhythmically against her ribs, She stepped into the living room and promptly froze, every muscle and joint in her body locking up in sheer horror at what she saw.

There was blood, _everywhere,_ all over the carpets and the couch, a deep crimson stain that made Heather's stomach churn. A strong, nauseating odor permeated the air and assaulted her senses and made her retch, and she was sure right then that if she had anything in her stomach she'd have thrown it up without a doubt. But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it was that her grandfather was standing in the center of the room, with pallid eyes, sunken cheeks and a gaping hole in his belly where his intestines used to be.

She couldn't stop herself from screaming, backing away from the sight and into the corner of the kitchen table, which displaced her balance and sent her falling backwards onto the floor. The mangled, moving body of her what hat once been her grandfather, her _grandpa,_ turned to more fully take in the source of the commotion. Upon seeing the living, terrified girl half-sprawled on the kitchen tile, he began to lurch forward, a gurgling groan escaping his bloodless lips. Heather moved backwards, tears welling up in her eyes as she shook her head wildly, desperately. "Grandpa," she said, "Grandpa, it's me, it's _Heather._ _Please_, please just stop. We can get you to a hospital, they can fix you up, they can..." Her grandfather had reached the kitchen now, the blood from his stomach dripping _drip drip drip_ onto the tiles. "Grandpa, stop!" Heather cried. "It's _me_. It's your granddaughter. You taught me how to hunt, how to shoot a rifle, and you were there when Grandma taught me how to shoot a shotgun! You took me out on huntin' trips with you and kept trying to get me to shoot the quail but I didn't want to and _please stop._"

Her grandfather stopped for a second, his eyes focused solely on her, and for a second Heather thought that she'd gotten through to him. Then he lunged for her, his jaws opening wide in an inhuman snarl. She screamed again, bringing her foot up to plant her boot firmly against his chest, only barely managing to keep his outstretched hands and gnashing teeth away from the unprotected skin of her face and throat.

She needed to fight back. She knew this. Every fight-or-flight instinct in her body was telling her that her only chance of making it through this day alive would be to push back, to fight against the being that was yearning to rip her apart and eat her whole. But she couldn't. This was her _grandfather_, the man who'd taken her in after the accident, the man who'd sat her down and taught her the weight of killing another living creature. She couldn't kill him.

_Look at him, Heather,_ the rational part of her mind informed her. _He's already dead. No one can survive with a would like that. Becca was right; he's not human anymore. Fight back if you want to live._

She still couldn't do it.

So she just pushed back, her strength giving slightly as the walking, ravenous corpse that wore her grandfather's face lunged forward again, his... _its_ bloodstained fingernails missing her face by centimeters. She wouldn't be able to hold this up forever. One of them was going to lose their strength, and the _whatever it was_ didn't look like it had any intentions of backing down. Now crying freely, Heather began to say her final prayers in her head. _Please, God, there are good people in this world, don't let them all die, let them make it through it, please_...

Before she could finish her prayer and get devoured, the unmistakable sound of a shotgun firing split the air and pierced her eardrums, and the top half of her grandfather's head disappeared in an explosion of blood and bone. Heather screamed again, and she kept screaming until a familiar voice split throw her panicked cries and reached her ears.

"_Heather._"

Quieting herself down, Heather looked through tear-stained glasses over at the source of her voice; her grandma, who was leaning against the kitchen counter with her shotgun in her hand and blood soaking her blouse. "G-grandma?" she asked, her voice small and high-pitched. "W-what... what did you..." She shrunk in on herself, pulling her feet away from the mangled, brainless corpse of her grandfather. "What happened?"

Her grandmother took a deep breath, her eyes downcast and her lips pressed together in a thin line. "The youngest Rodriguez kid, Vicente," she said, her voice strained from equal parts pain and misery. "He was just five years old... just a little boy...He came to the door, he was cryin' for help, Dennis wanted to make sure he was safe. You know how protective he was of the neighborhood kids." She shook her head. "Vicente was sick, got 'imself bitten by one of those critters. His family wasn't answerin' their door, and he was losin' a lot of blood. We brought him in to patch him up, but..." She trailed off, her gray eyes glistening with despair. "He didn't make it."

Heather's hands flew to her mouth, horror seeping into her muscles. "Oh, no..." She had left for Austin before Vicente was born, so she'd only met him once or twice and didn't know him as well as his elder brother and sister. But she remembered that he'd been a kind child. She recalled when she visited home the previous years and he had brought her a chocolate cupcake when she was lounging in the front lawn and had told her about the different between igneous and sedimentary rocks. "And... and his family?"

"I don't know," her grandmother said, before gasping in pain and falling to the floor. Heather let out a cry of shock and jumped up off the floor, her shoes leaving bloody footsteps as she ran to the aid of the elderly woman. Her grandmother was sprawled out on the carpet, her breathing labored and her eyes glazing over. The bloodstain on her shirt had spread, and Heather's blood turned to ice in her veins as she tugged the collar of the shirt down to reveal a large, gaping bite wound on her shoulder.

"Oh... oh God..." Heather stammered, moving away, her memory flashing with images of news banners and the words spoken by too-calm news reporters. _The infection is reported to be spread through bite wounds inflicted by the infected, and there is no known treatment. If you see someone who looks like they might be bitten, do not approach under any circumstances and contact the provided number._ "Oh, God, Grandma, no..."

"Careful," her grandmother coughed, "Don't go speakin' His name in vain, young lady. I raised you better than that."

Through her tears, Heather managed to choke out a weak smile. "Grandma, now's not really the time to chastise me on my language." Her face fell again. "What happened? How did you...?"

"The Rodriguez boy," her grandmother said. "He got up after he died, did this to me." She nodded her chin in the direction of her wound, the blood from which was starting to seep onto the linoleum and mix in with the blood of Heather's grandfather. "Dennis tried to get him off of me, and Vicente attacked him. I barely had time to the stairs to the room." The emotions in her eyes were starting to fade, but Heather's grandmother still managed to tilt her head and focus on the living room. "Where is Vicente?"

Heather shrugged, though her shoulders were shaking so hard that it was probably unnoticeable. "I don't know... I don't know, I didn't see him, I didn't see anyone, the whole neighborhood is empty... Oh, God, what happened? Why is all this happening?"

"I don't know, sweetie..." Her grandmother coughed, her breath dye and raspy in her throat. "Heather, you need to listen to me. You have to take the guns. My shotgun, your grandfather's rifle, and the ammo. The combination for the ammo box is eight seven one eight. Food, too and some of the medicine; anything else you can grab, you take."

"Grandma?!" Heather exclaimed. "Grandma, I can't. The university doesn't allow guns on campus and even if they _did_ I couldn't just leave you defenseless while those t-_things_ are around? What if one of them comes back? We need to get you out of here, back to the university safe zone, they'll be able to take care of you."

Her grandmother shook her head. "I won't make it," she said. "I know what happens when I die, and I... I don't want you to... I just shot my husband of fifty-two years in the head because he was tryin' to eat my granddaughter. You cannot _imagine_ how painful that was for me. I don't want you to ever have to go through something like that, Heather. No, no, you need to leave. Take the guns and anything else get back to someplace safe. Let me stay here."

"Grandma..." Heather's voice cracked and trailed off. There were no words that could be said, not in a situation like this. "I..."

"Shhh, shh," her grandmother said soothingly, reaching up to place a tremblings, bloodstained hand on Heather's face. The old, dying woman smiled weakly. "Don't worry. You'll be fine. You'll always be fine. Just do me one thing, dearie."

"Anything."

"Don't let this change you. Don't let the dead take you down with them. You find your principles, and you stick to them no matter what." Heather's grandmother coughed again, weaker this time. "You've always made me proud. And you're gonna keep makin' me proud. Got it?"

Heather nodded through her tears, biting her lip to fight back the sobs that were threatening to break through. "I got it," she said. "I got it."

"Good. Now go. Those things probably heard the gunshot."

"I love you, Grandma."

"I love you too, Heather."

It was then that she knew.

* * *

_And within a week, it had all come crumbling down_.

* * *

Heather could remember when her grandparents first sat her down and began to teach her about gun use and safety. She remembered when her grandfather had explained to her the details of his favorite hunting rifle; it was a "Browning X-Bolt Hunter Rifle," he had said, and it could carry a total of five bullets. He'd shown her how to clean it, and how to hold it, and to always treat it as if it were loaded. After that, her grandmother had told her about the shotgun she kept locked up under the bed, and how it was heavier than it looked and could put a hole through just about anything so she should be very careful with it because this gun was Not a Toy. She remembered being thirteen years old and listening rapturously, her eyes wide behind her then thick-rimmed glasses as she took in every word.

She remembered when she fired her first gunshot with her grandfather's rifle, three months after that first talk. He'd taken her to the woods and set up a makeshift bulls-eye on a tree, and told her too aim as best she could and to not be worried if she missed. Her first shot had been, against all odds, a perfect bull-eye, striking the center circle with a precision that has stunned even her. It had been beginner's luck, of course – her next couple of shots were disastrous in comparison – but she'd been elated for weeks.

Her grandfather had taken her out hunting a few times over the course of her adolescence, but she'd never actually shot anything. The idea of killing an innocent quail was just too much for her youthful conscious to tolerate, so she'd just gone along and watch her grandfather do the hunting, the barrel of the rifle gleaming faintly in the dappled sunlight.

And now that very same rifle, along with her grandmother's bloodstained shotgun, was sitting in the back seat of her car, next to the now significantly fuller footlocker. Against her better judgment, she glanced over her shoulder every few minutes to star mournfully at the weapons, and every few minutes the events of the day came crashing down on her all over again, and she had to wipe away tears. She'd have thought that she'd have been all cried out at this point, but it looked like that just wasn't going to happen.

The radio in the car was on, and in a delightful change of pace, it was actually playing music. She didn't recognize the song; while she had no hatred for top 40 hits and could actually enjoy them when the mood struck, she had never had enough interest in music to keep track of who was who. She wouldn't be able to tell the difference between Lady Gaga and Rihanna if her life depended on it. Thankfully, her life did not. She shifted in her seat and tried to lose herself in the music, hoping to distract herself from, well, everything.

_"I won't let you turn me around, and tell me now I'm much too proud, all you do is fill me up with doubt. This time, baby, I'll be bulletproof. This time baby..."_

Heather snorted derisively. This was no use. If it had been something like a bad break-up or yet another news report on some dumbass drunk driver, maybe the music would have helped. But now, all she could think was, _If only I were so lucky as to only have to deal with an asshole lover._ But she couldn't help but wonder about the state of this singer, whoever she was. Was she dead? Was she alive? Was she like Heather, mourning the loss of her beloved family?

Images of her grandfather's lifeless but still lively body flashed in Heather's mind, and she shook her head violently. No, it was best not to think of that. Not now. Turning her gaze back to the empty road and squinting against the red evening sun, she reached out towards to radio to turn it off when the song abruptly cut off mid-chorus, giving way to an unfamiliar male voice.

_"This is an emergency broadcast across all stations,"_ the voice spoke, the words even and clear. _"The Austin-area safe zone around the University of Texas at Austin has been reported unsafe by aerial surveillance. The infected individuals have breached the safe zone. There are no reported survivors. If you are headed to the Austin-area safe zone at the University of Texas, turn around immediately. I repeat, the Austin-area safe zone around the–"_

Heather switched the radio off and slammed on the breaks, the Taurus screeching to a halt on the plane of flat, empty concrete. Her brain had similarly slid to a halt, stuck on three little words. _No reported survivors._ No one had made it out. None of the military, none of the staff, none of the _students... Becca._

It was then that Heather had finally stopped crying. Instead, she simply sat there, staring blankly at nothing in particular, gripping the steering wheel tightly enough to turn her already pale knuckles alabaster. She didn't know how long she sat, still as stone, but when she finally began to move again the sun had finally set beyond the horizon. Without saying a word, she started the car forward again, making a U-turn and heading back east. There was no point in going back to Austin, now.

She wished that she'd lived long enough to learn how the world would end.

* * *

_Day Twelve_

* * *

Heather had spent five days in Marshall, staying in her car as much as she could and not going anywhere near the neighborhood where she had spent her adolescence. She saw them wandering the streets; the "critters," as her grandmother had dubbed them. It was an appropriate moniker; they didn't act like people anymore, but they weren't animals, either. They were too _dead_ to be animals. They were just... creatures, shambling about and seeking out any remaining life to devour and convert into one of _them_.

Despite knowing that the critters weren't the living, feeling human beings that they had once been, Heather couldn't help but feel a hollow ache in her gut whenever she looked at them. She knew these people. She had grown up with these people. She knew the short, balding critter that had once been her high school literature student. She knew the middle-aged critter that was once Ms. Blakely, still dressed in her jogging clothes. Watching her friends and neighbors shuffle around aimlessly, pallid and bloodstained, made a feeling of utter despondency settle in Heather's stomach. So she didn't leave the car much unless it was absolutely necessary.

She didn't eat much, either. She'd grabbed the least perishable foods she could find from her grandparents' house five days ago, thanking God for their supply of canned goods and bottled water, but she didn't know how long she'd be stuck in the situation she was, so she made sure to ration her food to last as long as it could.

On the twelfth day after everything had started, five days after she'd lost everything, Heather had heard news on the radio of a safe zone in New Orleans. So she said her goodbyes to Marshall and headed out, going in the general direction of southeast until she found herself on the I-49. She just kept going after that, hoping that it would be enough.

* * *

_Day Fourteen_

* * *

The safe zone lasted two days before the critters overran it. Heather turned the radio off for good after that.

* * *

_Day Twenty-Eight_

* * *

Heather spent two weeks in New Orleans, squatting in a compact, one-floor house with an ugly ivory paint job on the outside. She wasn't particularly gung-ho about the idea of going without a fast-moving box of metal and plastic keeping her safe from the critters, but she had to admit, the extra room was nice. If she spent any more time in the cramped confines of her sedan she was worried that her legs would atrophy and drop off.

She did have to admit, though, living in the house felt... odd. It was surprisingly well-kept for a living residence post-apocalypse, with the beds made and the cabinets stocked, as if those who lived there planned to return the next day. The electricity had gone out before Heather had arrived, and there was a strange and unpleasant smell coming from the refrigerator that led to her giving the kitchen as wide a birth as possible after the initial raid. She almost felt bad for staying in the home of strangers. What if they came back to find her, a ratty-haired squatter, sitting on their couch and eating their saltines? She just hoped that people of the Big Easy were believers of southern hospitality.

When she wasn't huddled in the smallest bedroom, trying to make as little noise as possible, she was wandering the halls and trying to imagine what the people who lived there were like. There were three bedrooms, one of which was a kid's room with a bunk bed and another which had been re-purposed into an office, so she figured that the people who lived here were probably hard-working people with two kids. Or maybe just the one kid, and that one kid really liked bunk beds. The kid liked superheroes, too; the walls of the small bedroom were plastered in posters of Superman and the Hulk, and Heather found a stash of comic books in the closet that she busied herself with during the day. She also read the books in the master bedroom; apparent the parents were very big fans of Ernest Hemingway, because she was pretty sure that they had every book the man had written. They also had a couple Dan Brown books, which were Heather's favorite. They were inaccurate trash, sure, but they were enjoyable inaccurate trash.

She found a couple of rolls of duct tape in the house, and it was then that she had an idea. She knew that duct tape wasn't something that a living person could just tear through with their teeth, and a living person didn't have their teeth rotting out of their gums. So she padded her arms with a couple of layers of duct tape, and she padded her shins as well. She didn't know how much good it would do, but it was better than nothing.

After two weeks of staying in the ivory-colored house, Heather was positive that she had overstayed her welcome. The critters outside were beginning to sniff around the place, and she knew it was only a matter of time before they started to barge through the door. So, when there was a lull in undead activity going on outside, she made a break for her car, dragging her stuff with her and tossing it into the back seat haphazardly, her heart pounding as a few critters turned her way and began to shamble towards her, rattling groans escaping from their withered lips. She left New Orleans then, making her way in the general direction of northeast.

She'd taken the Dan Brown books with her.

* * *

_Day Twenty-Nine_

* * *

She raided a store in southeastern Alabama and found a couple of backpacks. She stuffed as much of her personal effects as she could into them, separating the two backpacks into "necessary for survival" and "sentiment." She had to ditch most of the clothes that had previously been in her suitcase to make room for the food, ammo, and duct tape. Not that it mattered. She doubted that she was going to be fleeing from critters in fleece pajamas. This just made it easier if she needed to leave her car for extended periods of time.

She dropped the suitcase and locker on the side of the road and kept driving forward.

* * *

_Day Thirty-Two_

* * *

Thirty-two days after the dead first started getting up and eating people, Heather Barbara McLeland killed her first critter that day.

She didn't sleep well for a long while after that.

_Day Forty-Five_

Heather didn't even know where she was. She was sure she was still somewhere in Alabama, but she'd gone in all sorts of different directions, not paying attention. She could be back in Texas for all she knew. She just kept going. She figured that she should pick a direction and stick to it; maybe if she went far enough east she'd hit the coast. Maybe they had people at the coast, evacuating people off shore and away from all the critters.

* * *

_Day Fifty-Seven_

* * *

Or was it fifty-eight? Heather had lost count.

She hadn't seen another person in weeks.

* * *

_Day Fifty-Nine_

* * *

_Perhaps there is no one else,_ Heather thought, _and I am the last living human alive._

She hoped not. She missed companionship, missed the words and laughter of other living people. Survival was pretty pointless if there was no one to survive with.

* * *

_Day Sixty_

* * *

The sign said that she was close to Atlanta.

She wondered if she'd die there.

* * *

**Note: Updates will be slow due to a severe case of "It takes a long time to write out chapters." It took me two weeks to write this alone.**

**Please don't be afraid to leave constructive reviews so I know what to improve on. The longer, the better.**

**Unbeing Dead Fun Fact of the Day: The song Heather hears on the radio during the third third of day seven is "Bulletproof," by La Roux. I'm trying to keep the story from being anachronistic (she's hardly going to be hearing "Wrecking Ball" or "Dark Horse" on the Radio in the summer of 2010, after all, so I looked up the billboards for that year and chose a random song. And let me just say that reading through that billboard was like being painfully knifed in the face by nostalgia's asshole older brother.**


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